


To Say No

by WonderMint



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood, Character Death, Dogs are hilarious, Feminism, Fictional Religion & Theology, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Imprisonment, M/M, Religious Guilt, Slow Burn, Suicide, Vampire Sex, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2018-06-02 18:15:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6577276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WonderMint/pseuds/WonderMint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aymeric had long known he would die at his calling, with the sense of one who was attuned to the spirit world and was at peace with his fate.  He was young yet, though.  He had not faced much more than a few possessions, and bereaved ghosts who had needed more comfort than chastisement in order to leave the living in peace.</p><p>	He knew someday he would face more.  He was not afraid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Whispers

**Author's Note:**

> Several months ago I was struck by the image of Aymeric, sitting peacefully as he is described here. The image gripped me so forcefully that by the end of that very DAY I had written a 7,000 word outline for the story that follows it. Since then I've been working on making that story a reality.
> 
> I have a lot of stories that I work on, all at once, and so you're guaranteed to get updates from me every once in a while, even if it isn't on what you were hoping for. This one has been something of a black hole, though. I've put a lot of work into it, but I don't want to publish it until I'm far enough done that I can make sure that the story is consistent in quality and content, and every character is exactly how I want them. I want to at least mostly complete the first draft before I return and make large-scale revisions, so I can present the completed chapters to you.
> 
> This chapter, on the other hand, is almost exactly how I want it. And I feel that I owe it to my readers to explain what I've been working on, and why I'm so in love with it.
> 
> Rest assured that I WILL finish the piece. You can see my progress in my profile--currently it's 9 complete chapters and a mostly-completed Omake--and you can of course subscribe to this story to receive the first chapter as soon as it releases. Once I start releasing, I'll update this note, post the chapter count, and tag this up to the hilt.
> 
> Comments may be able to provoke infuriating hints out of me. You have been warned.
> 
> My apologies for the tease. But I simply can't hold my silence any longer. The voices whisper too loudly.

When the wind blew between the gravestones on the hill behind the little church of Saint Erasmus, it was sometimes possible to hear the whispers of the dead.

 

That was the only time Aymeric could hear them. They were a quiet lot, content in the lives they'd lived and the joy their descendants had found without them. They had settled into the bones of the very earth, and could wait the millennia in peace. Waiting for the day when the Fury would blow her trumpet and call her children to arms, in the battle that signaled the end of the age.

 

Sometimes, when he was feeling whimsical, he suspected that this particular group would not answer the call. Five more centuries, they might say. We're having a delightful lie down, just now. When the wind blew just so between the whistling stones, the message he heard was peace. It was a noise without volume, an empty space in the air that was somehow yet filled with the presence of a thousand aged souls. He could feel their wisdom and their kindness, then. The satisfaction of lives, if not well-lived, well-rested-from.

 

Long would he lie among them, taking their advice to heart, stilling the wheels in his mind to bask in the Fury's grace.

 

The earth was alive, here, more than the spirits interred. It had shifted in the long stretch of time since Erasmus had been venerated by a town that had long dwindled to a village, then a mere outpost on the edge of civilization. The rough grassy earth had been thrust into the air, knocking many of the ancient, worn stones on their sides, or throwing them up at odd angles. It was not the custom of the local people to straighten the stones. They merely added their own in-between and around the edges, only rarely creeping outside the tumbledown fence, crowding the little knobby hill until it had become its own metropolis of spirits.

 

Over it all, perched precariously on the crest of the hill, hung an ancient cross. It was crafted of bronze so thick and stout that not even the rains of a thousand winters could cleave it in twain. It had once, Aymeric gathered, carried the detail of the symbol of the Fury: a diamond-shaped spearhead atop the central pole, and a hand guard on the end of the shorter horizontal bar. Time had worn away both those features, but it was still possible to see the fuller of the sword, a long wide depression that stretched across the center of the cross. It was pocked with wear and hardly recognizable as the spear and sword of the defense of the faith, but by now the shape was universal enough that it made no matter. The sign of the cross still watched over the cemetery, and by it, the dead brought comfort.

 

It watched over Aymeric as well, quite frequently. Just now he had wedged himself between two gravestones, each fallen in a different direction. He reclined in the wide angle between them, one leg dangling and another boot propped askance. Here he could stretch his arms beneath his head and watch the clouds pass idly by. He occupied his mind composing sermons, mumbling over his verses from memory, or simply listening to the tenor of the voices that whispered around him. Often, he would simply nap. The dead did not mind. He was just another sleeping soul among many, and his thoughts were too quiet to disturb their slumber.

 

Today he simply rested. Alone with his thoughts and the silence that was full of nothing, at peace with himself and the world.

 

Father Aymeric was a handsome man, even among Elves of the wild North. Barely over thirty summers, he had an angular, elegant face, unlined with age or care. His hair was soft, curling delicately to frame his features, glossy like the feathers of a raven. His eyes were narrow and sharp, but kind, lit with a blue so pale some saw the very winter in them. Like his kin, his ears were long and pointed, and he moved with fluid grace. He was lithe and tall, deep-voiced and careful with his words. Patient, sympathetic, and slow to speak in anger.

 

He was the only one surprised, then, to find that among the circle of neighboring villages, he was called the most eligible man in Edinmire. Many a maiden would crane their necks when they saw a tall man in black robes, looking for the tell-tale starched white collar around his neck. It mattered not their blood or station. If they were unmarried, chances were, he would find himself invited to their homes, to hear the accomplishments of the blushing girl and to complement her mother’s cooking.

 

In his seven years of watching over the people of Saint Erasmus, he had become an expert at dispensing romantic advice, and the greatest judge of needlework in the North.

 

His order did not require celibacy. But it would not have been appropriate for a man of his special talents to marry. He had a tendency to travel quite suddenly, with no notice given for his return. He would not leave a young woman to weep for him, waiting in vain.

 

Aymeric had long known he would die at his calling, with the sense of one who was attuned to the spirit world and at peace with his fate. He was young yet, though. He had not faced much more than a few possessions, and bereaved ghosts who had needed more comfort than chastisement in order to leave the living in peace.

 

He knew someday he would face more. He was not afraid.

 

But he did wonder, just a little, when the wind blew up suddenly from the moor. It was sure and calm, like a breath drawn and held still. The spirits of Saint Erasmus whispered to him with many voices, but only one intent. A single word against the silence.

 

Goodbye.


	2. Wives-Tales

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please take note of the updated tags! Being a vampire story, things get bloody and dark, as well as fluffy. **PLEASE READ AND CONSIDER ALL TAGS.** I do not wish to trigger or distress readers, but some elements of the story are beyond my direct control.
> 
> My apologies for the many overdue updates. Now that November has struck, I'll be redoubling my efforts to finish the draft for this story. I have a few chapters I can publish to wet your appetites, just be warned that they may change slightly. There are also minor revisions in the last chapter. Notably, Aymeric's age has been changed to a canon-compliant 32.
> 
> Whether you're writing yourself or just mashing the refresh button, I hope everyone has a happy and productive November!

The calling had come from Wildwood, a burgeoning trading village only two days from Saint Erasmus, provided Aymeric changed his chocobo at the inn along the trade road. The messenger had given him the reins of a fresh bird and several promissory notes to pay his way. Evidently this was no mere haunting. A life was at stake, and someone of great worth was willing to foot the bill, requesting him directly rather than through the usual channels of the church hierarchy.

 

He had answered the summons on instinct. Technically speaking, he should not have gone without the Church's leave. But he had known already that the message was coming before its bearer had climbed the hill, wheezing, calling after him with a failing voice. He had known that he was destined to go, and he was not in the habit of disobeying the Goddess's will.

 

The village was a tiny jewel of civilization, nurtured by the rough natural beauty that surrounded it. Stone buildings and cobble streets sprouted up around the borders, gradually growing more dense than the scattered farmhouses and barns until the dirt path had grown into a wide cobble street. From there the buildings grew in density and stature like foothills into a mountain range. In the center of town they were mainly tall, two-story affairs. Though for a town named for the forest that caressed its borders, Aymeric thought it was passing strange that the buildings were made almost entirely of stone, thatch, and daub.

 

The streets were bone-straight and squared, as to the points on a compass. To the north, every wide avenue gave way to forest, springing up suddenly into dense thicket and tangled branch and visible nearly all across the town. To the East lay the lake and the wide river that flowed through it, with gentle green hills rumbling in the distance. From the forest the village took its name, and from the river its prosperity. All were called Wildwood, at least on the map. To the locals, it seemed, the lake was called Wildwater, as was the large tavern along the main road where he left his borrowed chocobo. From its door could be heard all manner of conversation, mostly earnest and reasoned discussion with a side of raucous laughter. From its stoop the road dipped gently down toward the lake, its waters too deep and thoughtful to be disturbed even by the fishing and trading vessels that skated upon its surface.

 

Like Saint Erasmus, it was an ancient city. He could feel it in the wind that blew in bearing the scent of fish and tradition. There was a rumble of something old here, pulling at his consciousness like a fly in the corner of a spider's web. He felt almost as though if he only found the correct street, closed his eyes and _tugged_ , he might uncover a nest of secrets and stories, hundreds of years deep.

 

Many of the buildings were quite old. They were well cared-for, though, the stones squared and straight, replaced with new when necessary and every crack patched with plaster to keep the wind out and the warmth in. None of them looked as though they did in Erasmus, as though they might fall down in the next sudden gale, occupants merely remarking on the strange weather as it tumbled about their ears. Wildwood had maintained its vitality as it had aged, a township in the prime of its strength and vigor.

 

The Foretemps manor was among the eldest, but it bore its age with the grace and dignity of its owner. It was there that he bent his path, walking along the wide central road and stepping past well-kept hedges and a large stable, right in the center of town. It was surrounded by a number of other large stone buildings, some civil and others private, but all with the air of age and importance. Many of these stones had seen a time before the land had been united beneath the Crown, an age when Elves ruled alone in Edinmire, rather than by a distant Queen’s writ.

 

Count Edmont had seen him immediately, meeting him in a richly appointed office. At least on the surface. Something seemed off about it, a little stiff and old-fashioned, a little worn around the edges. A little empty, perhaps, of life and joy, when on the surface it sparkled with grandeur.

 

“I bid thee welcome, Father,” rumbled the Count, leaning on his cane as he rose in greeting. “Unfortunate are the times in which we live. Would that we had no need of your summons.” He was bowed with age and lined with care, though kindness still showed in the wrinkles of his brow. His black hair was thinning along with his mustache, but it was clear that he had all of his wits and a fair measure of his strength. This was the man who had rule over the area between the Wildwood Lake and the Loire Mountains, far to the South of Erasmus.

 

Aymeric had often heard that he was kind and fair. But the old man looked at him with a measure of chill in his gaze, and something in his words had the ring of hidden truths painted as mere politeness.

 

“Thank you, my lord,” he responded, trying to put off his unease. “It is an unfortunate calling. I seem ever to follow on the heels of evil tidings. Yet, Fury willing, mayhap it is not too late to set things aright.”

 

It was sorrow with which the other man closed his eyes and leaned into his chair. That, at least, was honest. “It is far too late for that, Father. But you may lodge here as long as you have need. It is my son who has called you. He will greet you in the parlor shortly. Pray take your ease until then.”

 

It seemed a curt sort of dismissal, but Aymeric bowed nonetheless. “Thank you, my lord, for your generous hospitality.”

 

When his eyes rose again, to glimpse the old man’s tired face and then the space behind him, he realized what had been strange about the room. Above the mantle of the grand fireplace, there was ample space to display a grand painting, framed perfectly on either side by fixtures for lamps or candles. But the stone was conspicuously bare.

 

He was distracted from any further supposition by the gruff voice of the Count, roughened by age but not unkind. “Take care, Father. May the Fury guide your feet and grant justice to all who walk in her light.”

 

“May her grace ever shine on you and yours,” replied Aymeric automatically.

 

The parlor was similarly appointed, old-fashioned and elegant without seeming ostentatious. Aymeric was not accustomed to displays of wealth, but he at least felt comfortable here, rather than concerned he would sully the cushions. He busied his eyes admiring the craftsmanship of the tapestry that hung over the couch opposite, a merry group of huntsmen in a deep forest, the shadowed floor depicted in the same deep blue as the leaves on the trees.

 

It was indeed the Count’s eldest son who had summoned him, meeting him mere moments after he had been served tea by a servant who seemed to take up more space than her clothing permitted. She had bustled out the way she had come, vanishing at the sound of the young lord’s steps like a fat cloud in a brisk wind.

 

Lord Artoirel was the picture of elegance and vitality. He walked like a philosopher king, like a man who understood the weight on his shoulders and was yet equal to the task of bearing it. His face was shrewd and hard, but not uncaring. Merely a reflection of the gravity of his station, a man at any moment ready to serve his people as he had always been born to do.

 

“Thank you for coming so quickly, Father,” he had said, taking Aymeric's hand with considerably more warmth than his own sire had done. “We haven't much time. A young boy's life is at stake, if he is not already lost.” The lord gestured for the priest to sit once more, though it was the last thing on Aymeric's list of things he wished to do. Politeness smoothed over his anxiety as he did as bade. His host did likewise, frowning pensively, as though he could hardly be spared the time to speak, so worried was he by the problem at hand.

 

Aymeric could think of no reason to delay. “Pray tell me what you know, and we may begin at once. Mayhap the daylight will not be wasted.” He drew from his worn satchel a notebook and his quill, and prepared to take notes.

 

The other man nodded, seeming to relax slightly, agreeing with the sentiment. His pale eyes were yet still haunted by shadows of concern. “As noted in my request, we are plagued by a vampire. This is no figment of the night. We jump not at shadows. We have slain the creature's sire, and know for certain of what you hunt. I have heard that you are skilled with exorcisms. Have you faced such a creature before?”

 

Aymeric hesitated for but a moment before answering, loathe to admit his weakness but unable to deny it. “No, my lord. But I have been trained for such an eventuality. Mine apologies that I can offer no greater assurance.”

 

The lord closed his eyes, stretching his frown out into a long, grim line. “It is a gamble we must take. A hunter of greater experience could be found, for a price. But time is a coin with which I will not part.

 

“Some years ago an eldritch creature took up residence within the Wildwood. It is a fey place, which our people regard with awe and affection. But from time to time, those wandering within might go missing. Sometimes we would find them, alive and confused, days later. Other times, we might find them dead. Most frequently, we would simply never know their fate. Those whom we did recover, however, all bore the mark of the vampire's bite.”

 

Aymeric nodded, making note of the information in quick, concise words. Vampires, if clever, could go undetected for centuries. This one left unambiguous proof, suggesting that it was either foolish, young, or so powerful they had lost all fear of mortal reprisal.

 

It went without saying that he was helpless against the latter, but he had faith that the Fury would not test him beyond his limits.

 

“Three years ago,” the young lord continued, “we sent our militia into the wood, charged with slaying the beast. There is an ancient manor there, where father hunted in the summers of his youth. Many of the expedition... did not survive. But their mission yet succeeded. They brought back the creature's head, the kill confirmed for all to see. But...” Artoirel trailed off, looking off into the corner of the room as if unable to decide how to put the next part into words. He rubbed his hand along his smooth chin restlessly and flashed his teeth in a grimace. “I believe it was... a year later, that townsfolk began to go missing again. Sometimes weeks apart, other times months, but always with the same symptoms. They would be found, without fail, disoriented in the morn, with a pair of wounds in their neck. The bite of a vampire, just as before.”

 

Aymeric paused in his writing. “Forgive me, but do you mean to say that _all_ who vanish are now returned alive?” The Northlands were open and wild. It beggared belief that a villager might not occasionally go missing, for reasons innocent or merely seemingly so.

 

“Yes,” answered Artoirel, hesitantly. “As far as is known. They are never gone for more than a day, perhaps two. Until now. It has been over a week since the disappearance of the last victim. Lord Francel de Haillenart, son of the Baron Baurendouin, only twelve summers old. You can imagine his family are in an uproar. And... frankly, it makes no matter who he is... only that he is an innocent victim of a creature born of evil. It is time this matter is brought to an end.” The young man clenched his fist, shadows seeming to fall over his face, cascading out from beneath his long black hair like darkness falling from a lonely mountain as the sun set beyond.

 

He could have been little older than Aymeric himself, and yet, already he was a fine leader of men, to feel thus. “I shall not rest until it has,” answered the priest. “You have my word.”

 

And yet. Something was very wrong with this situation. Looking over his notes, there seemed many things that just didn't seem to add up. “Pray forgive my forwardness, but am I to understand that the creature has been allowed to hunt for two years, unopposed?”

 

Artoirel stood to peer down his nose, and the priest thought, for just a moment, that the other man might strike him. But he only rubbed his eyes like a man twice his age, aching for rest from the burdens of life. “What matters now is Francel’s safety. Nothing more,” he said. His tone left no room for argument. “We sent word to the Baron, but he has not yet returned from his sojourn. His sons will be glad to receive you in his stead. Naturally, anything you require of us shall be provided. You have only to ask.”

 

With that he was dismissed, from the cozy parlor of a manor as old as the stones of his church, to a street lined with worn cobble and chocobo dung.

 

Aymeric resolved to keep his investigation short. His research told him that vampires were creatures of habit. If the beast did not ordinarily kill, there was indeed every possibility that Francel was alive. If the vampire found him particularly amusing, he might have kept him to feed upon for a time. Such a situation was not prone to last long. In all likelihood, if the creature did not kill him, he would sire upon him in turn. Aymeric would have two creatures to hunt instead of one, and his heart might break to do it.

 

Francel’s family was indeed kind. The Baroness had no sooner greeted him than pressed a honey-cake into his hand and kissed his cheek, warm with hope that he might return her boy. She was a vital, elegant woman, her face lined with age but still showing clearly the beauty of her youth. Her hips were stolid and wide, but the cut of her corset brought elegance to her curves, and lent her bustle a matronly grace. Every dip and curve of her frame seemed to be draped in gold and jewels, but she wielded a wooden spoon in place of a scepter, and a long lace apron was tied around her waist. Her hair was pinned into a practical bonnet, but a long lock snaked out, tucked behind her elegant ear. It was a most extraordinary red.

 

The butler was chased away in moments. A hand to his back, she walked with purpose, leading him through an elegant foyer, down a hall, and into a wide, breezy kitchen. There was a little round table, fresh roses blooming at its center. When his manners prevented him from sitting as directed, she fairly shoved him into a chair.

 

“Make yourself at home, Father,” she said, in a fading court accent, clipped but regal. “There shall be no formality in _my_ kitchen. And as you are here for Francel’s sake, my hearth is _always_ open to you.”  She put the kettle on, and returned to fussing over a stove bubbling away with the rich scent of domesticity.

 

“Thank you, milady. You are most kind. Would that I could make any guarantees,” said the priest hesitantly. He had seen that hope before. He wished dearly that he would not disappoint it, but it seemed dishonest to promise any more. “I would hear of Francel’s disappearance, if there is aught to tell.”

 

The woman remained glued to her stove, wide hips swaying with the motion of her spoon as she stirred the soup, unleashing the strong, decadent odor of stewing fish. Finally she answered him, with a voice stretched taut like a sail in the wind. “Francel did always love to listen to his sister’s tales,” she began slowly. “We never caught him when he played in the forest, but sometimes we might find hints. No amount of reprimand ever seemed enough. The storm caught us all by surprise, sweeping in all at once like a winter’s frost. He never came home. The children searched the town by lantern-light, and knocked on all the doors.”

 

The woman tapped the spoon on the side of the pot, once, then twice, before laying it sloppily on the counter nearby. Walking to the door in long strides, she poked out her head and shouted. “Lannie!” she yelled, with a startling volume and enough force to rattle the windows.

 

By the time she had placed two cups of tea at the table and retreated to her spoon, another woman had appeared, willowy and strong, poised, with sharp features. Her hair had clearly come from her matron, short-cropped to peak around her delicate chin and red like the last rays of the sunset, echoing through the clouds.

 

Aymeric stood respectfully at her entrance, but felt no taller for it.

 

Her shoulders were visible above her blouse, as was the fashion these days, with her lithe figure well accented by a wide underbust corset. Beneath flowed a long, fine skirt in verdant green, whisking around her ankles but apparently concealing a pair of riding boots, visible as she strode confidently into the room. She stood tall as she peered intently at the priest and his uneaten honey cake, burning him with her sharp-cut sapphire eyes. They were intense, hard and inscrutable, half-lidded and deep with some hidden emotion.

 

“Good day, Father,” she said, voice strong but heavy, like a bull pulling at its ropes. “I take it he has been found?”

 

A clatter sounded behind him, the matron’s spoon falling to the floor. “Lannie, no,” the Baroness clucked soothingly, rushing forward to embrace the younger woman in her arms. “Father Aymeric is here to look for Francel. Pray tell him what you and the boys found in the wood, and he shall bring him back to us. You’ll see.”

 

The girl known as Lannie clutched her mother reflexively, looking at him anew over the woman’s shoulder. Aymeric hated that look, the hope crystalizing in her sea-deep eyes before they were veiled by grief long-suppressed. They shimmered for a soft moment before she blinked her emotion away, stumbling backwards from her mother’s grasp and shaking her head.

 

He hated it because he knew just how thin her hope really was. Because in a few days time, he might stand in this same cozy kitchen and watch the two women forget their dignity and weep.

 

The Baroness planted an affectionate kiss on her daughter’s forehead, tracing a lock of her hair to tuck it behind her ear. Then she turned to face Aymeric, who struggled not to shuffle awkwardly at the emotional display. “Father dear, this is Laniaitte, my precious rose. Sit, sit,” she cooed to the girl, pushing her toward a chair and returning to her cooking. She went instead to retrieve her lost spoon, tossing it into the deep basin and fishing another from a drawer for the stew.

 

In the time it took for the bustling woman to return to her work, Lannie had recovered herself. She stood tall once more, stately, like a parade chocobo in fine form. She curtsied elegantly before him, then took to the rough wooden kitchen chair like a princess at court. It was so stunning a display that Aymeric returned his own bow unsteadily, remembering only now that he was _male_ and that he had spent the majority of the last  decade dodging the responsibilities of his gender.

 

Fortunately for them both, such niceties as courtship were uncalled for, now. As if to emphasize it, the Baroness clucked her disapproval, bent over her soup as though she addressed it instead. “What did I say about formalities in my kitchen, children?” she said, and there was nothing for it but for Aymeric to sit as well.

 

Laniaitte spared a thin smile for her mother, before folding her hands before her and beginning her tale. “We worried when Francel did not come running home, even when the rain blew hard against the shutters. So we searched. We had already looked in all of his usual places by the time the sun had been well set. I should have known he would be in the woods. I am at fault for filling his head with such nonsense,” she said, letting her long lashes droop over her eyes.

 

“I would not know myself,” Aymeric replied gently, “but I have always heard it is the solemn duty of siblings to prompt each-other to foolishness. It is clear that he holds you in high regard to have listened to you. Do not regret that he loves his sister.”

 

The young woman ducked her head for a moment, but the corners of her ruby lips turned into a sad sort of smile. “That is true, very true. But I would rather be despised than lose him.” She shifted slightly, and produced a handkerchief from beneath her sleeves, dabbing at eyes that hardly seemed to water, though they would not engage him directly. While her visage still seemed dignified and composed, he could see a little of what lay beyond it: grief so deep she seemed to fear losing control of it, should she let even one tear escape.

 

“ It was Chlodebaimpt who insisted we enter the woods,  in the small hours of the morning , even with the rain pouring down about our heads. He had been there when the last creature had been slain, so it is no dishonor that he feared the wood ever after. Would that he had been wrong… we found only a few of his things. His  wooden  sword, his  _hat_ , the dear thing, and a hollow in which he might have tried to hide beneath a fallen tree . He had not been very far within, and yet, he was gone before sunrise.”

 

Every hope that Aymeric had carried that the lad had merely wandered off was quashed, just then. So too did he crush the urge to jump from the table and run into the wood straight away. Rather, he gritted his teeth and closed his eyes to his worry, forcing himself to accept that it was too late in the afternoon to set out, and that a single day more would matter little, whether the child was alive or dead.

 

Facts were a cold, hard thing, at times. They made his heart ache like a stone in his chest, seizing within his ribs. But it softened when he opened his eyes, seeing the fiery maiden full of such restrained hope. She had gone into the vampire-haunted forest in pouring rain, deep in the hours of the hunt. She was either a creature without fear, or one in whom love had dislodged all traces of cowardice.

 

“Chlodebaimpt is on the evening watch,” said the Baroness, gently edging into the empty space of their silence. “He shouldn’t be hard to find if you’ve a mind to speak to him. I imagine Stephanivien is at the docks, or else pestering the smith again.”

 

When he caught Laniaitte’s eye, she nodded, so sharply it was nearly a salute. “I doubt Chlode has much to add, but perhaps it will do him good to speak to you before you set out, if you can spare the time.”

 

“I will,” he said, the one way he could truly promise to help. Nor did it escape his notice that the stiff young woman would entrust him with the task. “Thank you, dear ladies. I will do everything in my power to bring Francel home. I swear it.” Then he bid them both farewell, abandoning his cup of tea for the second time that day, carrying his cake to nibble in small bites as he wandered about the town.

 

Inquiries revealed a superstition far older than Francel’s disappearance. People spoke of fey creatures who roamed the woods, protecting and warding it from intruders. When folk turned up after a disappearance, they were said to have been touched by the wood and its spirits. Their wide, unfocused eyes and blank memories had only aided in conjuring up fairy stories learned at nurse’s knee. Those who had returned from the wood were held apart, with a little awe, almost reverence, by some.

 

Others told him that the victims had been defiled, or that it had been their sins which had led them to their own predation.

 

Gertrude's family held to a mixture of both. She was a comely maiden, in the full flower of spring, sitting by the window in her loft without a care in the world. She seemed untroubled as she doted over the flowers in her window-box, humming sweetly at the cheer-bright sun and the late afternoon breeze. But her mother confided, in hushed tones, that a marriage proposal had been called off by the groom, on the charge that the girl was no longer pure.

 

Aymeric did not press the matron further. He merely ground his teeth and asked for time alone with the child.

 

He could not have called a woman more wholesome if she had been birthed by Halone herself. She was human, round-faced and freckled, with long golden hair and a plump smile. She greeted him with a curtsy, holding out the edges of her pale pink dress a little awkwardly, as if unused to the formality. He bestowed upon her his blessing. Not perfunctorily, but with conviction in every syllable and gesture. It made his heart ache to think her chance at happiness and family had been ruined because of the actions of some horrible creature. The cross that hung over her bed had not protected her, nor the rosary that hung around her now-unmarked throat.

 

He would make it his mission to see that no other was thus afflicted.

 

“Pray tell me what you can remember,” he urged. “Of the woods, of the—vampire,” he added, when she did not seem to understand the request.

 

Understanding never quite seemed to dawn on her brow, though it furrowed with thought. Her eyes were glassy, unblinking, fixing him as though seeing something wholly other than the priest before her. “It was early. I was among the green, chirping. The basket was empty. Then dawn struck a second time, no moon, no stars. I awoke as from a dream, and the basket was wet with dew. Empty, still empty.”

 

Grief knifed its way between Aymeric’s ribs. Was this the result of the vampire’s meddling? Was she damaged by the bite?

 

As though sensing his fears, she reached out to take his hand in hers, soothing it with the softest touch. Her full lips pursed in sympathy, a kind smile. “Lay down your fears, Father. The Fury shepherds each of us along a different path. That mine should wind near yours is but a blessing.”

 

Whatever had befallen her, she was devoid of fear. Her green eyes—brilliant, flecked with gold—seemed immune to pain or sorrow. The tears that gathered at the edges seemed more joyful than aught else, and the intensity of it gripped his heart hard enough to hurt.

 

The priest bowed his head, unable to take much comfort from such reassurances, no matter how sincere. It should have been he that soothed _her_ fears. He felt younger than his years, his own hands too large in her gentle grasp.

 

Francel was still out there, somewhere. Alive or dead.

 

The sun bowed low enough to peek through the window, painting flowers and girl alike in  rosy light. He led her to sit by the window box, and knelt on the floor beside her, grasping her hands as she gripped his, turning her reassurances back upon her.

 

Perhaps he should not have pressed. But he needed to know what it was that Francel faced, while he counted the hours until dawn.

 

“Pray forgive me for asking,” he said, his tone hushed and gentle, apologetic. “When you—awoke from your dream, were you hurt in any way? Any pain or soreness?  Lingering fear? Anything other than the bite? ”

 

She dipped her face, but kept her gaze fixed on him intently. Her unadorned lips moved with deliberate care, emphasizing each word like a child’s grammar lesson. “No hurts, Father. No harm. No fear, no pain.” Again she soothed his fears, as though he were a child that fled the night. “All that remains are dreams,” she breathed at last, almost an afterthought. “Dreams that are not mine own.”

 

“Dreams?” asked Aymeric. “Not nightmares? Not fear?”

 

Her only answer was to duck her head and blush prettily, a freckled rose in the fading light. Then she took refuge in her hands, closing up like the morning glories that climbed the walls outside.

 

Ah… _dreams_. Only dreams. Young members of his flock often spoke of such, thinking they confessed to sins. But there was no shame in it, no sin in growing older and learning one’s body anew. “There is no cause to be embarrassed, child. Do not fear. They can do you no harm.”

 

“They do not cause me any fear,” she answered from beneath her hands, sounding as if she were speaking through a bowl of porridge. Then she peeked out and furrowed her sunny brows at him, as though to reassure _him_ instead. “There is naught within the wood that may do me harm.”

 

He shined his smile on her, though he did not feel any joy save a slim glimmer of hope. “Then pray have no concern. Thou art beloved by Halone and her grace shines ever within you.”

 

He turned to leave, then, to leave her in peace, to sing songs to violets that basked in her warmth. But at the last moment she reached out a slender arm to grip his frock coat, and peer up at him again.

 

“Do you plan to journey into the wood, Father?”

 

“Yes,” he said. “I will see that none other comes to harm. Worry not.” They were not mere words. He believed them in that moment, that for her sake and that of those like her, he could not help but succeed.

 

She turned her dewy eyes to his, reflecting a brilliant green that seemed more alive than he could ever remember having felt himself. “Have care, Father. The wood whispers. It is possible that you may not return, should you pass beneath its boughs.”

 

The whispers. It was as though if he stilled his heart to beat and turned his ear toward the wind, they might still surround him. He heard them now, the memory of the ghosts of Saint Erasmus and their uncharacteristic farewell. He heard the anxiety of his heart, the wonder at their meaning, and the dread of the girl and her strange warning.

 

Oft did the Fury speak through many mouths. And so he bent to brush her hair from her forehead and kissed the spot with reverence. “Bless you, child. Fury grant you grace and strength, and shepherd you ever beneath her spear.”

 

And, dear thing that she was, she smiled at him, as though greeting a long-lost friend. As though she held not an ounce of fear for him, but was only happy that he had finally arrived.

 

When he returned to the girl's parents, he fixed them each with daggers in his eyes. Not against them, necessarily, but against the people who judged Gertrude and saw her wanting. “Your daughter is pure as the snow that melts ere it even reaches the ground. Let none say otherwise.” Even if the beast had touched her, there was no stain on her from it. She was wholly resistant to evil.

 

It was much the same with the others. There was little evidence that any had been abused, though the people whispered of it. Brides or grooms of the wood, one old woman suggested with a wink. And the touched that he spoke to would confirm it. No marks, no hurts, only the bite. And dreams that followed them even now. Dreams that made them stammer and blush and avert their eyes even to mention it, or apologize as if he were casting judgment on the sins of the night. And one pattern was clear. All who had been taken were young and vital, but never children. Some married already, some innocent virgins. Always men and women in the kiss of youth, the age of romance and marriage and families newly begun. All save young Francel.

 

At least this vampire did not much _distress_ his victims. But the thought filled him with cold fury just the same, as though he had swallowed a chunk of ice fresh off a mountain stream.

 

Aymeric finally found Chlodebaimpt along one of the narrower Northern roads. He wore a suit of light chain over an orange tunic, carrying a spear that could well have been more formality than weapon. While he seemed attentive at his post, his sweep of the town seemed to linger over-long toward the wood. When the priest finally drew close enough to address him, the young man startled visibly at his approach.

 

The man was easily recognizable as kin to the Haillenarte women: sharp features, short-cropped strawberry-red hair, and though young, lithe and strong. Most distinctively, dark shadows lurked beneath his eyes, which seemed strained by grief and worry even after the surprise at the priest’s sudden appearance had worn off.

 

“Lord Chlodebaimpt, I presume,” said Aymeric gently, giving the young man his space. “My name is Aymeric. I come at Lord Artoirel’s request to search for your brother. Pray forgive my intrusion.”

 

“No, Father, it is not you who intrude. You are welcome here, most very welcome.” The young elf cast his eyes over his shoulder, in the direction of the wood, before looking at him once more. “You are here to slay the vampire? It is… no trifling task, that I can promise you. The others hold out hope that Francel may yet live, merely because we know no others to have been killed. But I have seen of what those creatures are capable. You must be on your guard, Father. Fury protect you.”

 

“I… thank you, child, for your concern,” said Aymeric. And truthfully, he knew he walked into danger, the like of which he had never faced. And yet, it was not merely duty for which he acted. It was his calling to ease the pain of souls such as these. Such as Francel, yes. But also Laniaitte, and Gertrude, and Chlodebaimpt. “Nevertheless, I will do what is necessary to see that none other suffers thus. Lady Laniaitte has told me of what you found in the woods. Is there aught else you can say that might aid my search?”

 

“No,” said the guard, ducking his head briefly behind his hand. “Or… yes, perhaps.” He lifted his head, and now there was a steely glint in his sea-blue eyes. It would have looked out of place on one so young, had he not the sharp jaw to sustain it, or the dignity in the set of his shoulders. “I was there, three years ago, in the house in the woods. It is like that the vampire is still there.”

 

“Lord Artoirel believes as much,” nodded Aymeric. “I aim to make my way there at dawn.”

 

The young lord shook his head, though not in denial. “I am sure you know as much, but… vampires are not like the people they once were. He did not merely kill my fellows. He… slaughter would have been kinder. He _toyed_ with them. He...”

 

The priest reached forward to steady the other man as a shudder wracked his frame, and pale hands gripped his arms for a time even after he had caught his balance. “Thank you,” the young soldier murmured. “The memories overtake me at times. Many good men were lost. Many _friends_. It is a miracle that I yet live. And yet… never would I speak ill of our lord Count, but it is a wonder that it has taken so long to call for aid. I should have thought he’d have wanted _revenge_ , to stamp out the evil before it had taken root. And now it has happened all over again.”

 

That drifting look, that grief that was at once present and past. Aymeric had seen that, too. Wounds that might never properly heal, that scarred the mind instead of the body. He understood now Laniaitte’s request.

 

“You are a brave man,” the priest said, drawing the soldier out of his reverie to focus on his face, closer than was ordinarily proper but near as required to keep his steadying hand on the other man’s shoulder. It was not for balance, anymore. “You have seen horrors, and yet when your brother was in danger, you went into the woods after him, in the dark and the rain, mere moments after the vampire itself had been there. It is said that true bravery comes not from an absence of fear, but from overcoming it. You did not hesitate to search for Francel in the one place you feared above any other. And thanks to your courage, I know where to look.”

 

The young man nodded, his frail smile not quite convinced of his words, but comforted, at least a trifle. It was all Aymeric could offer him.

 

Save for the rescue of his brother. “I would be vainglorious to promise success. But know that my heart is committed to this task. Were it not, I would need only the love of you and your family to convince me that this boy’s life is well worth sacrificing mine own. Have faith in the Fury’s providence. She has led me here, and I shall not waver in her task.”

 

“Thank you, Father,” said Chlodebaimpt, tears threatening to overflow the deep wells of his eyes. “I will pray earnestly for your safety.”

 

Saying farewell to the young guardsman, shaken but carrying a shard of hope, he made his way back to the Foretemps manor. He knew the identity of his mark, his location, and his ordinary feeding habits. The creature had recently fed, and may be occupied. Now was the ideal chance to strike. He retired to his tidy guest room and prepared his tools, making ready to set out just before dawn for the deep Wildwood.

 

He vowed that he would not return again until the people who lived in the shelter of the forest were safe at last.


	3. Howling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was planning to wait until the halfway mark, but I find myself needing a pick-me-up. So here's your NaNo progress report!
> 
> Last night, November 11th, put me just over the 22k line. That means I'm sustaining an average of 2k a day, just a touch over the 1,667 word per day minimum. I anticipate using some of that buffer as the month goes on, especially turkey day, but I'm going to do my best to exceed the word limit.
> 
> As far as my actual progress on the story? I forgot how few words 50k really is. 22k translates into two full chapters and two partial chapters. There is progress on the story, including concrete movement on both romantic plots, but not enough to get close to finishing with this month's push. On the other hand, this is getting me through the toughest part of the story, and at the same time suggesting solutions to problems that have been dogging me since I started (lol). So I'm gonna say that this whole project is looking a lot more doable! I may soften my stance on *fully* polishing it before release; I will say, however, that some portions need heavy re-working after this month's teasers, so I can't promise these cliffhangers will be resolved soon.
> 
> I will try to ease your suffering. Eventually.

The implements of vampire hunting were simple indeed. As a priest, Aymeric was uniquely equipped with holy symbols, and could bless his own water. He blessed the piece of rough-hewn wood that he would drive into its heart, as well, feeling in his own heart a righteous fury that could well have been a gift from Halone herself.

 

The silver-plated dagger he carried at his hip was blessed instead by his mentor, on the day that he had set out to shepherd a flock of his own. It was the last time he had seen Father Yuhelmeric. He had fallen soon afterward, on a mission in the wilds of the mountains, felled by a demon of the deep earth. In truth, the dagger was not much help. He would never be the fighter his mentor had tried to make him into. But he treasured it all the same, and vainly thought that some day the old man would, acting through it, protect him from harm.

 

Vital, always, was his Enchiridion. Not the ancient, illuminated codex from which he read on Sun-day morn, but his own mechanically-printed copy, given to him on his ordination. Pages so thin one could nearly read the text on the reverse side, lettering so small half the time his own memory supplied the passage instead. It was worn from use, and the black leather binding was creaky and stiff, but it was a part of him all the same.

 

Garlic was easy to obtain. He wished to hunt, rather than ward, so he packed three cloves and wrapped them tightly in several layers, so that their scent would not give him away unless he truly needed them. And so, thus equipped, he set out for the stable-yard and the beginning of his trials.

 

Lord Emmanellain de Foretemps seemed a different breed from his brother entirely, though the physical resemblance was uncanny. He had the same refined features, the same soft black hair falling around his noble face and flowing to his shoulders like a cape. He had similar taste in clothing, though there was a more modern cut to the furs that edged his coat. But though he could not have been but a few years younger than Artoirel, he wore his youth openly, his pale blue eyes seeming to betray every thought that flitted through, his shoulders twitching occasionally as though he might startle like a bird from a branch and burst into play. His lithe frame had grown nearly fully into manhood, and yet, in many ways, he seemed yet a boy within.

 

“Good morrow, Father,” he had said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and yawning, as if he'd only just woken for his lessons. “My, but this is an indecent hour to be awake. Do only sinners need their sleep?” His long hair was set slightly askance on his head, and had Aymeric not been introduced to him the day before, he might have thought he had not yet combed it.

 

If the illusion of childishness had been any stronger, Aymeric might have been tempted to offer him sweets. Instead he took the reins of the fine, tall chocobo the boy half restrained and half leaned upon, patting its beak in introduction. “I merely prefer to accomplish my sins in the daylight hours,” he replied with a knowing smile.

 

The boy grinned briefly, accepting the offering for what it was: self-deprecation with a hint of pandering. While Aymeric was painfully dull in habit, he nevertheless refused to see himself as above those to whom he ministered. It was not merely his age and pleasant looks that made the youth of his village confide in him. It was also his readiness to meet them at their level, and slowness to criticize their worldly behaviors. He much preferred gentle suggestions to heavy-handed moralizing, as hellfire and damnation tended to convince only those sinners who had not actually sinned. In Aymeric’s experience, the most repentant were often those who needed their repentance the least.

 

He did not wish to know to what sin the boy referred, but it was well evident that something was on his mind from the occasional furtive dart of his eyes. “Then you shall needs work twice as hard to accomplish it,” Emmanellain advised earnestly. He brought forth a folded map and a bag of light provisions. And then he waited, looking over the priest meaningfully, chewing his lip as he peered upwards into the taller man's face.

 

Aymeric paused in the act of packing the items away in his satchel, startled enough to look back as if rifling through the boy's soul to bring his concerns to light.

 

Then the young lord scowled, gripping his own elbow and holding his arms close to his side as he stared at the straw on the stable floor. “Do try to come back safely, Father,” he said, seeming to force the words out one-by-one. “You and Francel both.”

 

“Halone is my sword and spear,” replied Aymeric, making the sign of the cross by tracing his fingers between his forehead, sternum, and then both shoulders. He could not promise to succeed. But he could give everything in the attempt. Even his life.

 

According to the map, the Wildwood was large indeed, spreading many miles to the North and the West, and far to the East beyond the river. Only the nearby environs were counted as sacred. There were no roads on the map, no streams or lakes, merely the river that carried the Wildwater's blood and a freshly-inked 'x' over the place the boy had indicated he should find the manor. He could reckon the direction, at least. If he stayed near the Eastern side, angling away from the river, he should eventually find some evidence of the old hunting lodge, or at least trails that had once been pounded by the feet of many a bird. He remembered his education in woods such as this; if there were a trail, he would find it. It should not have been more than half a day's journey in by foot, and he was mounted.

 

In the worst case, if he could not find it by nightfall, he needed only weather until morning, and then resume the hunt. There was little chance that the beast would roam by night so soon after feeding, and he was well-protected.

 

He had not counted on the wood siding against him.

 

Within minutes of entering its borders, he had understood why the locals had held it with such reverence. The very light in the air had seemed to change, giving the misty morning a bluish, hazy cast. It was like stepping into a nursery story. He should not have been surprised to see glowing faeries hopping from branch to branch, or plucking his chocobo's bushy tail.

 

He had been concerned that his bird might not find a path among the fallen logs and the walls of thorny hedges. Yet ever was a way open to him, always a clear path for the beast to pick, cautiously whistling and clicking its beak against the slap of leaves against its side. The scenery was beautiful, the way was clear, the light just warm enough on the back of his frock-coat. The air was so sweet that he could have drunk it like wine, were he in the mood for revelry.

 

It was pleasant enough that he had to remind himself of his purpose, every so often, catching himself watching the light shining through the trees rather than the way before him. He was searching for something. A great evil lived here, of that there was no doubt. And after an hour or two of progress, the sun finally climbing in the sky enough to bathe the forest floor in golden shapes, he began to suspect that the forest was not shining its beauty upon him as an offering of friendship.

 

Or mayhap it was. Because occasionally he would hear the trickle of water through the wood. He was never quite able to reckon the direction of the stream, the sound seeming to come from everywhere at once and the way always seemingly blocked by vines or rocks or hedges of barbarous thorns. But when he heard the whisper of the water, it reminded him of the graveyard at Saint Erasmus, and the whispers of his companion ghosts.

 

He could not understand the words the wood was trying to say. But he had always had the gift of communion with spirits, and he was sure as winter's edge that the Wildwood was alive. It sounded old, and slow, and kind. So he relaxed a trice, running his fingers through the short yellow feathers at his bird's neck, soothing them both.

 

Then, as he had been taught, he looked within himself and set his tongue to speak. “My ways art the wild ways,” he whispered, giving no voice to the motion of his lips. “Do not fear to tread the paths of rough stone, the hallowed halls of wood and branch. The rushing waters shall not rise to carry thee beyond my reach, for all art within my grasp. Fear not the snapping of teeth or the howls of beasts. Tame art my pets, to the hand that foldeth ever in prayer. Open art the boughs and branches that will receive thine rest. Be at ease, my child, for my ways art wild and terrible, and thou art a lamb beneath the shelter of my spear, cradled close unto my breast.”

 

The moment his psalm had finished and his lips had stilled, the wood opened for him.

 

His chocobo gave a cheery whistle as it hastened upon its great claws, trotting into the clearing and making a rush toward the shallow stream that burbled along its edge. The sky was open, here, the ground lined with soft bluish grass that, even in the afternoon, seemed kissed by dew. Aymeric let the chocobo have rein, dismounting to taste the waters himself.

 

Sweet and pure. He could not judge the spirits here to wish him ill. So he took a moment to bask in their kindness, giving thanks to the goddess before sharing an apple with the bird, patting its head merely for the comfort of the action.

 

Then he withdrew the map from his worn satchel, frowning at it as he held it to the ample light.

 

The going had been far easier than he had anticipated, but it was difficult to reckon direction when the wood had seemed to choose his path. Still, from the position of the sun in the sky and the peak of a mountain just visible through an opening in the boughs, he could guess that he had been going in roughly the correct direction. He should have seen something by now. Old chocobo paths, or signposts, or just trees grown in a way not quite given over to chance. It had not been so long ago that the house had been used. It should not have required a master tracker to locate.

 

On the other hand, the wood was infuriatingly dense in any direction but that in which he had gone. It could nearly have hidden an entire city, in a nest of well-placed brambles.

 

“Do you wish to aid me, or hinder me, spirits?” he asked aloud. It was not a rhetorical question, though it may have been a presumptuous one. He stretched out on his back atop a wide warm stone and let his fingers trail into the water as it rushed by. Cold, as if fresh from the side of the mountain in the distance. He closed his eyes, reached out his senses, merely felt, and listened.

 

He waited. There was a sluggishness, a sleepiness in the air, and he wondered if he was conversing with spirits of men, fey beings, or the very trees and stones themselves.

 

Then he heard it. Just one word, trickling slowly through the water and bending around the stones and twigs that hindered its path.

 

No.

 

He had erred in asking a two-horned question, but while vague, it was at least definitive. He hadn't the wood's cooperation, though perhaps he had its respect, or it might not have bothered to answer. It could be toying with him or ignoring him, but it would not lead him to his quarry. He could not even know that it would not cause him harm. If the wood was as wild as folk said, it might not even understand what harm truly meant, to a man whose span of years might number scarcely over an hundred.

 

The indifference of spirits was a dangerous thing. But he knew now, to be as wary and cautious as if he bargained with a demon for his soul.

 

It was proved when he mounted his chocobo and noted that the sun was already descending in the sky. When he had lain and listened to the wood, he had perhaps listened overlong. It had seemed mere moments, and yet he had heard the slow heartbeat of the forest, passing between his fingertips and thudding against the blades of his shoulders. Perhaps he had slowed to its pace when he had listened to its song. Or perhaps he had been beguiled. Either way, he had been most foolish indeed to trust in the pleasure of his senses. There was a lesson here, somewhere. Of the sort that would make him roll his eyes at Father Wilmore, attempting to put the fear of hellfire into a flock of younglings who had discovered their eyes and hands.

 

He stilled his panic, gave the bird a gentle kick, and charged over the stream into the dense underbrush.

 

Bells later, panic was beginning to seem like a valid option. The sun had not yet set, but it mattered little when the trees stretched over him like giants, blocking the last golden rays from ever reaching the forest floor. He was forced to give up his chase, for now. In the morn, he would start over, with far less of an idea from whence he started, but with no illusions clouding his eyes and an entire turn of the sun in which to use them.

 

There was just the little matter of avoiding a vampire during the hours of the hunt. But he was prepared, and while it was not quite true to say that he had no fear, he at least did not value his life so much that the prospect of death would cause his steps to falter. He searched out a clearing, small but comfortable enough, then dismounted his chocobo and prepared to put his lessons to use. He would set holy wards and garlic around the camp, bestowing the wood with prayers and entreaties as he went, creating a space that was sanctified from without and from within. Then he would set a small fire for warmth, eat a light supper of fruit and grain, and lay down beside the beast that bore him.

 

That was the plan, anyhow, but it was quickly interrupted. He had not but drawn his cross when he was startled by the baying of a hound. Not from afar, not the wolf in the distance that watches over the cliffs. But here, at his heels, close enough to feel the air tremble at his breath.

 

The beast tore into the clearing, emerging all at once from a great tangle of branches and shaking out his fur. He was a flurry of dark bristle and motion and snapping teeth, and before Aymeric could reach for the reins his chocobo had already gone, running into the deep labyrinth of the night.

 

Oh _Hell_ , he thought. Holy symbols and garlic were little use against dogs. He had no choice but to fly to his own feet, lurching into the wood after his chocobo and hoping that the Fury guided his steps.

 

The light was tangled and fading, the moon shining out now, brightly enough to make him wonder if he were dealing with a werewolf instead of a vampire as the creature howled behind him. It was not enough to illuminate his path. It seemed that he tripped with every other step, hurtling through the Wildwood blindly, like a sinner lost to the truth.

 

He could rectify that at least.

 

“My ways art the wild ways,” he said, forming the words around his desperate gasps for air. The psalm was fresh in his mind, but it was also precisely the right one for the moment, as if Halone had delivered it to his lips. It was the same situation he had faced earlier, and yet it was its precise opposite, as if someone had painted a scene in shadow alone.

 

The wood had said no, he recalled. He had to at least hope that it would not seek to impede him when his life was on the line and the Fury was at his side.

 

“Do not fear to tread the paths of rough stone,” he rasped, “the hallowed halls of wood and branch.” The paths were not stone, for a blessing, because then he could not have taken the rough jolt of a misstep so easily. Here he tripped on root and log, but all gave easily under his feet and none grabbed his ankles overlong. He felt instead as if hands were plucking at the back of his heels, slowing him but not breaking his stride. The way was open, as it had been earlier when he basked in the morning's glow. Only now, he could not see the way before him save for a silvery glimmer along the tree trunk's edge, and his only companion was the howl of the hound.

 

“Fear not the snapping of teeth or the howls of beasts,” he said, holding the words within his mind with difficulty as he ran, like a great heavy stone sinking within a lake. It was difficult to trust in the Fury when the reality in which she placed you seemed so contrary to her words. But that was what the psalm was for, was it not? For if the teeth did not snap and the beast did not howl, why would he have need to seek solace from his fear? The thought was like a surge of light in his soul, giving fuel to the pounding of his boots and the hope in his breast. He had never known a man to outrun a hunting dog, in the dead of night, in a forest filled with witchery. But he had protectors that they had not, and food they knew not of.

 

“Tame art my pets,” he continued, “to the hand that foldeth ever in prayer.” His voice was beginning to quail as his lungs refused to work for any goal other than propelling him forward. He was not used to such exertion. He walked to and fro many miles a day, but rarely did he run anymore, and he was no warrior nor laborer. His saving grace had always been his raw speed. Father Yuhelmeric had always laughed to see him sprint, when he had put his mind to it. And his footing was as sure as the doe that fled the huntsman, or the goat that ranged the vertical rock face as though it had forgotten the meaning of 'up' or 'down.'

 

His endurance was not unlimited, though, and already his steps began to slow. His fear could only propel him so far. “Open art the boughs and branches that will receive thine rest,” he gasped, and now his lung-fulls of air were ragged and painfully deep. He needed that rest, but the hound was still fast on his heel, still herding him like a pheasant from the brush.

 

Then, in the stillness between his breaths, in the shaking, shivering space between one footstep and the next, he realized the true danger he faced.

 

Wolves hunted for their pack. Dogs hunted for their master.

 

In all likelihood, he was being pursued by two creatures, and the second one he would not hear until it was too late.

 

No, it was _not_ too late. He would be prepared when the creature arrived. He had his tools, his benedictions, his holy weapons. If he could not strike a killing blow now, he could at least send it running. He merely now had to contend with the dog as well.

 

Mayhap his dagger would serve him after all.

 

“Be at ease, my child, for my ways art wild and terrible.” He whispered now, not out of the need for quiet but for the lack of wind to spare the words. He knew he could not outrun the danger, no amount of prayer could make him sprout wings and fly. But he knew what he faced, and so he would try to find a place to make his stand. Some hollow, perhaps, someplace concealed, or at least guarded from several sides. The path down which he rushed was startlingly open, or at least dark enough to admit no nooks or crannies in which to hide. All he had was the light of the moon, and the barest suggestion of an endless, tangled corridor. A hallowed hall of wood and branch, pillars and arches of a cathedral to the Fury's wild song.

 

Without warning, the ground gave way beneath him.

 

He had ceased to fear to tread the path, and the path had deserted his feet. He tumbled over the edge of a sharp ravine that the moon had failed to illuminate, falling into a deep vale of shadow and dirt and grasping roots.

 

He could not stop his panic. He yelled, fear welling in his breast even as he called for his goddess in his mind. Branches and sharp stones reached out to pluck at him, failing to hinder his fall and only tearing at the flesh of his face and hands as he rolled down the sharp incline.

 

Something seemed to grab him, a giant reaching out of the sky and gripping his leg, pinching it steady as a stone.

 

His leg gave way with a sickening crack, and then he continued to fall, only a gurgling scream accompanying him the rest of the way down.

 

Only seconds later he came to rest, full on his stomach, covered in dirt and moss and what he hoped was mud. But he could not hope to move, because he was in such a pain as he had never felt. So much that his stomach revolted against the waves or stinging hurt, and he had to still his breath merely to keep his head from spinning.

 

He did not hear the hound, for a blessing. Only the beating of his own heart, the rush of blood so thick and loud that his hunter could surely have heard it from half a mile hence.

 

“And thou art a lamb beneath the shelter of my spear,” he mouthed, silent as he could manage. He would needs draw his dagger. His rosary was still in his hand, twined between his fingers so solidly he would not have been surprised never to wrest them free. But the dog, the dog would surely reach him first.

 

As surely as if he'd summoned it with the thought, he heard it, cresting the rise above him and baying triumphantly to its master. Aymeric attempted to roll onto his side, wincing and tasting bile. His body was telling him to stay, to wait, to seek healing and succor. His body was consorting with vampires to lead him to the slaughter.

 

Dirt rained down upon him, in clumps and drops and the occasional lump. The dog was approaching. He made another desperate flailing movement, managing to roll onto his back. “Cradled... close to my breast,” he whispered, desperately against the dark. If the Fury was to protect him, now was the hour. His hand didn't want to seem to move, numb with shock or pain or maybe just fear. He clawed at his coat in a panic, no longer sure where his dagger lay, or if it had been lost in the flight.

 

It no longer mattered, because the dog had descended, feet away, braying in a low voice, a rolling, repetitive “ro-ro-roooo.” Aymeric decided that his best chance was to play dead, and hope it fooled both creatures long enough to put his training to use.

 

He knew precisely where the hound stood from the snuffling of its snout. He struggled not to tense in expectation of a bite. But one never came, merely a wet nuzzling that started at his hip and traveled, noisily, to his face. It took a moment to linger there, puffing and drooling on Aymeric as he shut his eyes and tried not to let out his breath. It paused, giving another triumphant howl into the night.

 

Then it licked his face as if it were a puppy greeting his truest friend, and Aymeric gave up pretending to be dead merely to tremble and give thanks for his short reprieve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the cliffhanger. The next chapter will not be much help.


	4. Proposals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NaNoWriMo is finished, and I've gotten my 50k. More substantively, the b-plot is entirely wrapped up, with the exception of the finale. There are only a handful more chapters to write, though some need to be heavily revised as well. In short, I've answered all the tough questions and gotten nearly all of it out on paper. This is even better than I hoped for this year's effort. I can do this. I can finish it.
> 
> Soon (TM)
> 
> As for this chapter: I'm sorry. That's all I'm gonna say. I'll try to get the next one re-written quickly; it's the one that needs the most surgery.
> 
> Enjoyment/rage/speculation? Please let me know, I'd love to hear how the AU is being received. It's uh, not my usual thing. Thanks for reading!

The gloaming of the evening had just ended and the rich dusk just begun. It was the time when Emmanellain de Foretemps felt most alive, but tonight it was wasted on tea and jam.

 

Supper had been hell. Of late the relations between Count Edmont and his heir had worsened, and the youngest son had felt it keenly, seated between them at the long table and struggling to keep his eyes glued to his roast. Father and son had seen eye-to-eye, once. But recently the long chilly stalemate between the land's ruler and his successor had taken a sour turn, and evolved from disagreement to open war.

 

Tonight's supper had not been a skirmish, but a long campaign, waged in the strategic valley between the turnip flats and the river that flowed from the heights of the mashed potato range. Emmanellain had ceded the neutral territory immediately, leaving the table as soon as his father had given indication that his appetite, too, had been a casualty of war. Now he sat in the slowly cooling kitchen, perched upon the counter like a boy half his age and waiting for his tea to brew. He chewed morosely on a crust of bread slathered in strawberry jam, only because there were no shortbread biscuits to bear it instead.

 

There had been little reason for the cook to bake since Lord Francel had gone missing. The Baroness de Haillenart had not stopped making honey cakes since the day he'd gone, as though by piling the treats high in the right wind, they might reel the boy in by his nose. A basket sat in the corner, filled to the brim and covered in a cheerful cloth. But Emmanellain knew sooth that the family was preparing for a funeral. They were merely doing everything in their power to keep their hopes alive, as if by leaving a plate ready at the supper table they yet kept their boy fed and happy no matter where he happened to be.

 

None of it was _fair_. It hadn't been _then_ , it wasn't _now_ , and it would not end until every one of his house bore the stain of blood on their hands.

 

The low sound of footsteps echoed against the stone of the hall. Emmanellain knew without looking to whom they belonged. They were sure, measured, and strong. Artoirel was on the hunt, and the click of his boots merely foretold the appearance of his pompous face glowering darkly from within the doorway, beneath his dark and flowing mane.

 

The younger boy lifted his cup to his lips, though he did not do so to drink. He merely closed his eyes and sampled the temperature of the cup and the air around it with the sensitive kiss of his lips, and pretended he was thus occupied.

 

“It is unlike you to be home with your needlework at this hour. Has Father Aymeric convinced you to join the nunnery?” asked Artoirel, offering a fragile smile and a truce.

 

It was enough, just enough, to remind Emmanellain that he yet loved his brother, and so he set down his cup and hopped down from the counter to retrieve a second. Smiling himself, his own lips bent ever to mischief. Half in the world of pranks and play, and half between the sheets.

 

“I must admit he did not, though the idea has great merit,” he replied. “You know I prefer a woman with some experience, but so many virgins could tempt even as pure a heart as mine own.” The cup was retrieved, the leaves already near to hand. The water in the kettle was still piping hot, and so within moments Artoirel had a cup of his own with which to pretend to business.

 

His brother declined to comment on the remark, letting the corners of his lips twitch upward at the jibe and inclining his head in gratitude for the tea. He settled himself and his teacup both at the small table in the kitchen's warmth. There was little point in being scandalized by a comment he had himself anticipated. He had opened the door and invited Emmanellain to walk through it, and by so doing invited his confidence.

 

Had it truly been so long since they had spoken, thus, as brothers? Had the bonds of blood strained so badly that he should be surprised the man still knew his heart?

 

The younger man paused briefly, scolding his breath for catching at his indecision. Then he lifted the bright checkered cloth that concealed a trove of sweetness and love, and placed a honey cake on the edge of Artoirel's saucer.

 

Emmanellain would not eat them, fond though he was of the Baroness and _all_ the fruit of her labors. But Artoirel was free to take as many as he wished, and vainly the youngest brother wished that he might choke upon them.

 

“Truly, Emmanellain, I have never known you to be so filial. Have you poisoned the tea?” Artoirel did not speak in jest, not truly. He was a man of refinement, and so not prone to such indecent expression as his younger brother was wont. His lips were more often settled in a dignified frown, as though it had been painted on when the artist of his portrait was in a fell fettle. Now they had sagged yet further, into a look of true concern, and Emmanellain had to toss his head and hop back on the counter to avoid the grimace of guilt he might otherwise have betrayed.

 

He took his time settling himself onto the space beside the cutting board, paying careful mind to the way his shoulders now hunched to avoid collision with the counter above him. Elves lived lives barely longer than the humans that shared their land as neighbors. The difference between them seemed greatest not at the ends of their lives, but at the beginning. When young men with rounded ears were coming of age and picking up their father's axe, their elvish friends remained fair and boyish, beginning their final spurt of growth only when they turned twenty, or just before. Emmanellain was still growing into his full stature, and it might be another score of years before he could grow his father's beard. He was ill-used to his height and his deeper voice, and was still prone to knock things over or bump his head on occasion, as though childhood pursued him close on his heels no matter how quickly he might run and hide.

 

“I know not to what you refer, brother,” he replied with dignity, all pretend. “I am ever the picture of virtue and obedience that father has wished me to be.”

 

“Yes,” replied Artoirel, sweetening his words with a bite of cake, chewed and quickly swallowed properly in a way Emmanellain had never bothered to master. “That is surely the source of your charms. Tell me, is that what Clarice adores about you so? Or was it Anabelle that you are seeing now, I cannot seem to keep them straight any longer.”

 

Emmanellain frowned then, forcing his brows into a scowl of dignity by looking at the floor, and attempting the painted-on glower that his brother had already forged into purest art. “Do not be crass, brother. My tender heart belongs to only _one_ woman. Now I know whence these shameful rumors that dog my heels are born.”

 

In truth, he wanted to be out right now. In the silvery thread of moonlight that shed its cool caress on sinners and saints alike.

 

There was a place just outside the bustle of the township, on a bit of rock tucked behind some trees, from which you could view the lake from above. In the newness of the moon you could see every star above reflected in its placid water, as though they had descended to earth and one could row among them like faerie-lights. In times such as now, the moon itself sat within, like a mirror held to Halone's own shining face.

 

It was his favorite place to sneak after dark. Alone, sometimes. But he far preferred company, of the female persuasion.

 

Just now, though, he should have been in the forest. It would have made an excellent place for rendezvous, had it not been occupied by a terror of the night. He knew there was a reason that the Wildwood was revered, and it had ever seemed friendly to his feet. But he was a man of no great courage. And he suspected that right now, that kind priest was frightened as well, frightened for his very life.

 

He truly hoped that his fear was without merit. Truly, fervently, with all his heart. But he had already made his decision, and its consequences were in the Fury's hands, to protect her champion or leave him to his fate.

 

He should have accompanied the priest, made sure that he would be safe. He should go there, _right now_ , sneaking out as if to meet a lover but vanishing alone into the deep wood. Lighting a lantern, holding his breath, stepping boldly onto the path and trusting Halone to guide his feet as the priest had done himself. But he was yet a coward. He was not the man his brother had been, or his father wanted him to be.

 

Emmanellain was not aware that his scowl had fallen into a look of honest sorrow until Artoirel spoke, gently, like breath against a glass. “Will you ever forgive me, little brother?” he asked.

 

The real question was whether he could forgive _himself_ , for his deeds or his inactions either. “I already have,” he said, shrugging with barely a movement of his shoulder and hardly upsetting his tea. It had cooled, by now, beyond the appropriate temperature to drink it but to the place where he could gulp it unrestrained. But even with three lumps of sugar, its simple pleasure could not delight him.

 

Artoirel did not seem much comforted by the news, but his frown relaxed all the same. He renewed his interest in his tea and cake, sampling the silence, a brief reprieve to lick his wounds from a war long fought against his own blood.

 

Finally he fixed Emmanellain with his pale eyes, long with shadows of care and worry but soft for the brother he still cared for. “I know I hardly needs tell you this but... Lady Laniaitte is of an age to marry,” he said. “Father had been speaking to the Baron about the matter, before he and Aurvael--”

 

There was a sharp clack of porcelain as Emmanellain struggled not to drop his plate and saucer both, and succeeded only in uniting them more forcefully than their union was ever meant to be. With some effort he set the pair down and struggled back into his brother's frown, like a boy trying on his father's trousers and tripping over his boots.

 

He felt like he was expected to say something, and yet he could muster no words. Nothing he wanted to say was even remotely appropriate, and some of it verged on abusive.

 

So after a space, cautious of the tempest between them, Artoirel continued.

 

“Father has asked me if I would consent to marry her,” he said, not meeting the other boy's eyes, occupied entirely with a teacup that was near enough to emptiness not to warrant his concern.

 

Without preamble, Emmanellain threw his own cup across the room. It smashed against the wall beside the china cabinet, where the remaining tea was left to drip upon the stone. A few particles of porcelain remained adhered to the wall by the tension of the drink, to fall only later and by degrees.

 

Then he picked up his saucer and threw it after, letting it spin through the air to strike the selfsame spot.

 

“Very nice,” said Artoirel gently, with no alarm and very little reproach. “Your marksmanship is much improved.”

 

Incredibly, the display of childishness had helped, though the younger man still heaved with emotion and had very little idea how to express the things he didn't want to say. But he did, if for no other reason than to prove that he could, work up the courage to ask. “And? Did you accept?” he finally gasped, waving his hands in the air as if Artoirel should have supplied every word himself without the need of a partner for his conversation.

 

Artoirel lifted one brow in derision, looking upon him as though he had discovered the younger boy wearing a potted plant for a hat. “No,” he said flatly. “Nor did I give him much excuse. It is a difficult position you put me in, Emmanellain. I cannot imply that she may have love for another without impugning her virtue. And I cannot advance your case as a replacement. I, too, needs find a match, and there are few better in the region than the daughter of Baron Baurendouin. I will be charged with producing an heir. _Your_ fortunes in marriage will be in striking alliances farther afield. I cannot suggest, either to father or the Baron, that you court such a distinguished lady unless you first win her heart _yourself_.”

 

Beneath it all, beneath the words of sense and politics and rules and etiquette, was the plain truth that his brother would not say unless it was a jest that Emmanellain himself condoned: that his reputation was unfit for a lady of her worth, and that he had little chance of receiving her favor even should he have the courage to ask for it.

 

At least... at least... his brother had not betrayed him. He had not resolved the matter, merely stalled for time. It was, truly, the best he could have done, because as soon as Artoirel made clear his refusal, the lady's parents would scramble to find a replacement. She may have been Emmanellain's playmate since nursery, but Artoirel had years yet to find a bride. A woman unmarried, even for a handful of years, was rarely afforded a second chance. Were he to wait too long to make his move, she would likely be given to a man much older, merely for the title and inheritance and the assurance that she would be well cared-for.

 

It made him sick to think of. It made his throat fill with bile that tasted of jam and childhood, the days when they had played together and talked of fighting side-by-side, as knights of the wood.

 

“Thank you, brother,” he said at last, unable to say much else through the effort of fighting his tears. Tears that belonged to that younger boy, waving his stick at imagined foes who could never have given him harm.

 

In a single day, Artoirel had committed his deepest betrayal, and revealed his truest loyalty. He could not resent his brother so. Emmanellain might already be a murderer himself, after all. They had each arrayed their pieces on the board, choosing their champions and setting them in play, holding their strategies close to their breasts. But only the Fury would tell who would lose, and whose soul would be stained with sin. Their champions would do battle, and likely, one of them would die. And the victorious brother would carry ever the blood of a good man on his conscience, and perchance, wish that he had lost his battle instead.


	5. Apologies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I owe you one more chapter after this before I get back to straightening out the draft. He deserves a proper introduction, after all.
> 
> This chapter was originally much longer, but it’s better for the cuts. I was planning on merging it with the next one but... well, you see how it ends.
> 
> Thanks for bearing with me!

At the bottom of a ravine, in a forest painted with the very shadows of Hell, lay Father Aymeric. Bloodied and broken, unable to stand, struggling even to think. Full of pain and fear, and laid viscerally bare to the danger that yet lurked in the dark.

 

The dog that licked his face and snuffled its nose in his coat was surely friendly. But it was not the dog with which he was concerned, any longer. Its master could not be far behind. Unlike the dog, it would come upon him suddenly, melting into the shadows of the night and giving no warning before it took his very life’s blood. He clutched his cross to his breast, the only defense he could muster when his body had betrayed him and his bones had snapped.

 

Instead he waited, every breath a constant struggle against the pain. A push and pull against a tide of miasma that battered his focus and resolve. The dog by his side seemed to fade away, naught but a distant spectator. Irrelevant, now that it had brought him to his death.

 

Vampires were creatures at one with the night. They needed no light by which to see, their feet made no din. Some had even forsaken the ruddy earth, treading the dark on silent wings.

 

There was nothing he could do but trust in his Goddess, and hope that he might only die. Stilling his panic, he reached out instead for her love. It had never been far from his grasp.

 

“Lamb… wanders,” he whispered vaguely, plucking halfheartedly at the words. He didn’t need them to call her, and voicing them was naught but habit. The rough tangle of his throat made it impractical. He surrendered his grasp and let the verse flow through him of its own accord, fragmented debris riding the crest of a raging flood.

 

‘ _Lonely sheep, one flock. Beyond pastures, the plains echo. High on the hill. The Shepherdess sees all, and her voice—her voice, her voice will sing thee home.’_

 

Home.

 

By degrees, light pressed around his eyelids. He had closed them, at some point, but he blinked them open  in an unthinking bid to cling to the bones of the earth.

 

The light was still there. Night swaddled him, but upon the cliff a dawn was breaking, wobbling unsteadily like a new-birthed calf. All around him, shadows jumped and shuddered. The dog at his side stood up, whined plaintively, and then sat once more, ears pricked toward the phantom light.

 

It should have been a product of his delirium. A visual manifestation of his looming pain, or the last light of Halone’s mercy. A final blessing for her beloved, before she gathered him close to her breast.

 

A pained breath pushed against his ribs, cold with the scent of fear.

 

Whatever happened, she would not allow him to become a beast. Her righteous Fury would protect him. His soul would return to her, clothed in Heaven’s light, casting off his pain and sorrow as a dim forgotten dream.

 

Then the light broke fully along the cliff, heralded by a cheerful shout from above. “Haldrath! Haldrath, you _ridiculous_ beast, where have you gone to _now?_ ”

The hound barked again, a crisp exclamation of joy. Aymeric knew its tail was a-wagging by the solid thump atop his chest. He was quite glad that it had not sat instead by his broken leg, too interested in slobbering on his face.

 

“Oh!” chirped the man above. If the priest had not been blinded by the sudden profusion of light cast from the lantern that wobbled in his hands, it might have been possible to make out the stranger’s face. Instead he tracked his movements in outline, focusing his attention instead of his eyesight and tracking the weave of shadows. He caught a flash of movement as the man vaulted over the ravine’s edge. Somehow he met the cliff’s face on his own terms, skittering artfully to the bottom as though he’d located some stairs, and vaulted them two and three at a time.

 

In another situation, Aymeric might have been struck by awe of his sure-footed grace. Instead he tried to lift his rosary with a trembling hand. It was past the point of arming himself further; his fingers had barely obeyed his order, moving bare inches before giving once more against the pull of the earth.

 

If this were his vampire, he would rely on his faith to ward his soul against a fate worse than death.

 

If this were _not_ his vampire, he thought with a bubble of discordant whimsy, he would consider retiring to hermitage and devoting himself solely to prayer. Partially out of gratitude. The rest because he would surely have exhausted his life’s allotment of Halone’s beneficent grace.

 

Presently the stranger drew near, the lantern becoming a faery-light, possessed itself of wonder and guile. “Oh _dear_ ,” said the voice of a man, rough but thoroughly dismayed. “You… you _clumsy beast_ , just look what you’ve done to the poor fellow. He’s _injured!_ ”

 

The hound known as Haldrath replied by thumping his tail in the dirt. Aymeric’s world seemed to tip slightly, as though someone were chasing after one more spoonful of soup amongst the remainder of his sense. He was no longer certain who was taking part in the conversation, and whether he was being rude.

 

The lantern came to rest somewhere along his side, and a kneeling figure seemed to materialize before the shifting light. Aymeric turned his head a fraction, drinking in the chance to observe as though by doing so he could forge his fate.

 

This man did not _look_ much like a vampire. And yet it was he who had chased Aymeric through the night, stalking him like a frightened deer until he could give no further sport.

 

Perhaps he looked a touch _aetherial_. Perhaps he was kin to fae  himself. He was certainly wild enough for it, vividly at home among dirt and bramble, despite being far too clean. Otherwise he appeared as a pale elf, tall and strong. He had moon-silver hair, nearly translucent in the dim light, cropped short but blown at wild angles, straight but untamed. His clothes told of a woodsman, layers of leather and cloth in simple greens and browns. His face was rough and rugged, strength and angles, a hawkish nose and gleaming eyes. But the effect was not unpleasant. He had the look of youth that shone from within, and sympathy drawn on the curve of his wide, expressive mouth.

 

“ Bloody Hell,”  said the man, and his dismay sounded true enough. “Can you hear me,  dear ? I’ve got you, don’t  try to  move.  You’ll only make it worse. ”

 

Hope bubbled through the pain, pushing awkwardly through tangled impressions to quench his panic, like salve to an aching burn. It was certainly premature to relax. But like a child waking from a nightmare, he needed that kind voice. He _needed_ to trust, even if he had awoken into another dream.

 

And yet, viewed from that angle, it was not so far-fetched to suppose that this savior could be trusted. He had faith, after all. He believed that the Fury would guard his soul. There was no reason to doubt that she might see fit to spare his life.

 

Two details seemed to support that conclusion, as he allowed the other man to hover over him with kind hands and a warm voice.

 

First was the rustle of movement along the stranger’s shoulder. It appeared to be a pheasant on his back, tied to a leather strap so that its long tail bunched around his shoulder like a jaunty cape. Aymeric’s memory had bled fuzzy, water spilled over fresh ink, but it struck him as unlikely that a vampire might hunt for aught but the blood of men.

 

Secondly, his numb fingers still clutched his rosary to his chest. A lifeline physical and spiritual, salvation present and future. The woodsman’s roving hands and glinting eyes eventually landed there, clasping around his own securely. Instantly the ground beneath him felt more solid, as though the earth had borrowed the strength of the hunter’s hands. They too were cool and steady, soothing away his fever and panic, erecting a bulwark against the pain.

 

“A preacher,” said the man softly, his smile blooming with kindness as he took in the starched collar and black coat. “ _So_ sorry, Father dear. Don’t be afraid. Everything will be just fine.”

 

The tension Aymeric had been holding in his spine seemed to break, the woodsman’s words rushing like water through the cracks in his resolve. “No, no dear, don’t try to move. You’re injured—it looks _terribly_ painful, no need to speak. But we’ll fix it, of course we will. Everything will be fine. Just rest and let us take care of you. Just relax. Rest.”

 

All remaining fear flooded out of him in a loud rush, leaving the priest sagging and empty against the cold ground. It no longer seemed quite so important that h e watched his caretaker .  Aches and exhaustion were clawing at every part of him. Simple breathing seemed to steal away his focus, and he gave it over gladly.

 

At some point his eyes had blocked out the night.

 

“Dear, dear,” soothed the other man, and it fell over him like a down comforter. “That’s right. Just rest, Preacher dear. Everything will be… just fine.”

 

Gentle fingers left his hands, reappearing to stroke his cheek, then his brow. Aymeric shifted to lean into the touch. Against his fevered skin it was cool and sweet as the forest’s spring, and somehow just as pure.

 

Somewhere else, a kind voice was murmuring reassurances into the dark night. A dog whimpered.  The tide of crickets crept cautiously closer, synchronized with the heartbeat of the twinkling stars .

 

Aymeric was not there to hear it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Aymeric slept deeply. Dreamlessly. Without sight, sound, or thought. Rest surrounded him like a felt-lined box in the deep earth, where not even the whispers from his hill could reach him. He slept, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to fear the dark.

 

Somewhere beyond his conscious reckoning, pain still dogged his heels.

 

It was pushed distant, though, carried away in a gentle tide of slow, numbing relief. It was a fuzzy thing, the mingled sensations ebbing and flowing around him. An awareness that could grasp neither time nor meaning. Naught but contrast. Sharp, buzzing pain. The long wash of a soothing song. A crush of bones. A breath drawn so easily, like a pull of sweet wine.

 

A hollow nothing. A dim echo of neither sound nor sense. There were no reactions because the sensation could never truly reach him, in his cocoon of stillness and rest.

 

Perhaps it was what the spirits had meant by _peace_. Perhaps it was not unlike death in that way. Body stilled forevermore beneath the ground, eyes closed to sight, ears dulled to the weeping that carries on above.

 

It is a mark of mortality that even these timeless things must end.

 

The pain ebbed, cooled, slowing in the grate against tired bones to mingle with the wash of calm. Without time as his compass and unable to wonder, he drifted free of the pain that had imprisoned him. Like a spirit abandoning the vale of tears for the welcome of Halone’s embrace, Father Aymeric became one with the darkness that sheltered him.

 

Perhaps it would have been a comfort, had he still been able to feel.


End file.
